


If Walls Could Talk (This Tale They'd Tell)

by QuillerQueen



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Castles, F/M, Happy Ending, OQ Happy Ending Week, Romantic Soulmates, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-07-13
Packaged: 2019-03-18 13:14:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13682415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuillerQueen/pseuds/QuillerQueen
Summary: Regina Mills is a curator at Vesnohrad Castle, her home of ten years and second greatest passion. Robin Locksley is a craftsman without roots who, after a fateful night tour, succumbs to the place's mysterious pull. And the castle walls begin, in bits and pieces and scraps of ghostly memories, to divulge a most jealously guarded secret.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LillieGrey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LillieGrey/gifts).



> You asked for a peek into the culture of my country, and I thought long and hard about how best to approach that. My little nook in the heart of Europe boasts a wealth of castles, and they all come with their own legends. This story is inspired by the beautiful Bojnice Castle and the spirits supposedly haunting its halls to this day.

* * *

_If walls could talk, this tale they’d tell_  
_Of two souls meant to be—_  
_In days of yore and those to come,  
_ _For all eternity._

 _If walls could weep, they’d cry hot tears_  
_For two souls ripped apart_  
_By a cruel fate and crueller men,  
__Their love doomed not to last._  

 _If walls could sing, this tune they’d chant_  
_Of two souls lost and found,_  
_In brightest days and darkest nights  
_ _By love forever bound._

* * *

 

When John told him the place looks like a fairy tale come to life, Robin thought his best mate was exaggerating.

He couldn’t have been more wrong.

The moment the towers and turrets of Vesnohrad Castle came into view against the backdrop of the moon, silvery white and minted to perfect roundness, something inside Robin shifted. A sense of nostalgia overcame him, as if he were returning to a place of faded memories, to a home his mind no longer remembers but his heart still recognises.

Only Robin’s never been here before.

The yellow walls, painted silver in the moonlight and mottled with dancing shadows in fantastical shapes, draw him in, more inviting with every crunch of his steps on the curving path speckled with snow. The soft hoot of an owl and his own gently rising breath lend themselves to the delicate serenity of the moment. 

Before he could even begin to settle into the sensation, it’s ripped away from him again, the soft murmur of voices an unwelcome intrusion that sends annoyance skittering through him.

Right.

Of course there are other tourists. He’s very lucky to have secured a ticket at all for the only night he was able to clear his schedule.

Robin greets the small cluster of visitors with a nod. A few mutter back a distracted _evening_ , but most are too preoccupied to pay him any mind. They’re huddled close, seeking warmth, speaking in hushed tones or not at all. All in pairs. Some lip-locked.

The night chill creeps under Robin’s gloves and into his heart. He stuffs his hands deeper into his pockets to warm his numb fingers.

Not much he can do about the heart.

He supposes night tours in renaissance palaces are, in all fairness, quite romantic, and once upon a time he was partial to a bit of PDA himself even in less auspicious surroundings. Has he grown bitter despite his best efforts to the contrary? Marian would have hated that. Surely he can dig deeper than the dull ache of loss has taken root, and find it in himself not to be made uncomfortable by or begrudge the happiness of others. It’s been years since he’s had a reaction this strong. Perhaps it’s this place that brings it out in him.

A cool breeze blows icy pins in his face, and the water in the trench churns as the wind picks up with a distant howl. Excited whispers and nervous laughter answer the eerie sound, and Robin remembers John’s much too serious ( _dead serious_ , were his exact word before he clapped a hand over his mouth in utter horror) warning that the castle is haunted by generations of ghosts.

Chuckling softly, Robin rubs his hands together. Roland’s bound to get a kick out of all the stories, has probably convinced John to tell him one or two by now, employing the full force of his puppy eyes to get his way. Wondering whether he’ll be getting back to a child wide awake with excitement or from nightmares, Robin turns his face skyward, seeking the peculiar but pleasant peace from before.

A door must open then, for shuffling steps move as one into the courtyard. It’s bathed in flickering candlelight, dozens of candles placed carefully into grooves in the rock upon which the castle stands.

“Good evening, and welcome to Vesnohrad Castle.”

A gasp ripples through the crowd, and Robin cranes his neck to see why. She’s but a voice to him, having hung back instead of pressed forward in the group. A voice warm and smooth, one that both soothes and invigorates. Whoever their guide is, he’s going to enjoy her narration without a doubt.

Although admittedly he’d still rather like to partake in whatever gasp-inducing trick she’s opened with.

“As magical as the castle is by daylight, night-time brings out an otherworldly charm. On this _special_ day,” she says, the word stuck in her throat like a pesky fishbone for a fraction of a second, “we shall peek through the window of time at the greatest love stories the walls of this castle witnessed in the near-millenium of its existence.”

Did she say love stories? Specifically? And how on earth is his group made up of couples only, with the sole exception of himself?

_Oh for fuck’s sake._

It’s the fourteenth. Of February. Of _course_ it’s only couples.

Well, isn’t that just grand?

“Excuse me?”

Shit, did he say that out loud? Enough so for her to hear? And he must have, because heads are turning now, people moving out of the way, some scandalised, some snickering, until Robin comes face to face with the owner of the velvety voice.

She’s a vision in black—and she has gorgeous eyes.

Eyes that are currently staring daggers at him.

“Apologies, milady,” he chances with a bow as he takes in her costume, dark and embellished and centuries out of fashion.

She rolls those deep browns at him and, without so much as a nod of acknowledgment, turns around with a flourish of her gown that is nothing if not regal, beckoning the group to follow.

Robin, torn between reluctance to have his scabs picked at all night and the will to discover this place for himself with the help of their striking guide, is no longer keen to linger at the back, never mind that said striking guide’s voice carries all the way to the last corner of the whitewashed room dominated by an altar that kicks off the tour.

They’re in close quarters here, and even though she must be used to this, her discomfort is palpable. Her grip on the ornate candle holder turns her knuckles white, and her brow is pinched even as she addresses the group with a practised smile. No one seems to pay mind to anything other than the captivating tale she must be telling—one Robin is much too distracted to listen to—until one of the men shifts an inch too close and she’s casually waving the candle in a graceful arc, reclaiming a semblance of personal space without anyone but Robin catching on to the ingenious gesture.

It isn’t until he finds himself in another room, long and panelled in dark wood, with ornately carved upholstered chairs interspersed by planters of flowers in bloom, that he realises he’s not been listening to a word she says. That’s what he’s come here for after all, isn’t it? To learn about this place, see if it would be a fit for them. He’s a big decision to make after all, with much hanging in the balance, and how can he possibly do that with his mind wandering from the task at hand?

“The winter garden used to be the countess’ favourite place in those dark, gloomy days,” she explains, her own voice laced with the same gloom. Another treacherous stab of guilt prods Robin between the ribs—how utterly rubbish of him to disregard the work she’s putting into this, the emotional investment involved. “The countess, much like her husband, was deeply devoted to reconstruction works, so much so she had a chapel built here in 1662. We shall see the chapel later.”

Robin, along with the others, follows her trailing veil through the castle. Glimpses of her, despite his best efforts, are rare as people jostle to the front all around him, but he never loses the thread of her narration again.

Counts and countesses joined by an intellectual bond, widowed queens consorting with nobles of lower rank, and a plethora of figures reduced to oil and canvas and dark portraits come alive through her, their romance painted in surprisingly realistic colours. The romantic cliches she doesn’t manage to dodge carry a hint of sarcasm that goes unnoticed by all but Robin. Yet it’s when she talks of the fine details of architecture, of carved ceilings of walnut intricately inlaid, and of delicate artefacts retrieved after decades’ worth of research, that her voice loses the edge of tension, that words roll off her tongue with such passion they fill the air with magic.

Not everyone knows to appreciate such things.

“So how many times d’y’all reckon that chaise was used for eating—other than food?” some blithering idiot cuts her off mid-sentence.

Robin’s no prude. He doesn’t mind a good innuendo in the right place at the right time, with the right audience. But the sheer cheek of this man has him gritting his teeth.

Amid embarrassed little huffs and bouts of raucous laughter, the chap’s girlfriend chides him with a throaty _Victor_ as he just stands there, all proud of himself, challenging the woman whose efforts he’d just blatantly disrespected. Their guide (what’s her name, Robin wonders, it feels wrong to just refer to her as _the guide,_ even just inside his mind) remains silent for a moment, and as the people in front of him shift, Robin catches the reflection of her profile in an ornate mirror just as she arches an impeccable eyebrow.

That and the slight curl of her lip as she raises her head haughtily bring a smirk to his face. She’s going to destroy the man—and Robin’s going to enjoy every second of it.

“I’m afraid there’s no historical data on that,” she says smoothly, perfectly professional. “However, once we reach the Marble Room later on, I shall draw your attention to one of the quotes featured on the mosaic floor: _Virtus In Actione_. Actions, after all, speak louder than words.”

A beat, stunned silence—and then, laughter. Victor, with his ears burning, admits defeat and trails behind as they file through the door, Robin passing close enough to the couple to catch the amused _you know perfectly well you deserved that_ whispered in the chastised man’s ear as their bold and audacious guide ushers them all into the next room with a half-smirk.

Oh but he likes this woman tremendously.

And that’s before she shuts down a casual islamophobic comment in the middle of the Oriental Room.

She’s quite something, isn’t she?

Once they make their way through to the most famous of the dozens of rooms the castle boasts, as jaws hang open at the glorious sight of the ceiling that lends the Golden Hall its name, she picks up the story right where she left off, as if the intrusion had never existed. She waxes poetic about the unique work of art overhead carved from pinewood gilded with gold foil, and Robin, true to his profession, is utterly blown away, hanging on her every word, until—

A strong gust of wind throws a window open, races through the room, and snuffs out the candle in her hand.

She recovers fast, rushing to close the miraculously unharmed window and securing it with a slight frown (someone must have forgotten to do it, and she’s not amused, understandably so).

“Sorry about that,” she says. “As I was saying, Count Palfi—”

“They say the castle is haunted, right?” someone chimes in.

Robin scoffs. Not that he wouldn’t find it amusing, even fascinating on a normal day. He’s not a superstitious man, not easily spooked, but he’s also not arrogant enough to believe himself all-knowing of the natural or, for that matter, the supernatural. Must they interrupt the tour with inane questions in the most inopportune moments though? He scoffs, drawing in a deep breath to curb his annoyance.

She seems close to doing the same, but smiles instead and offers a non-committal:

“It’s part of the castle’s lore.”

“And that the castellan’s victim prowls the halls, wailing when the wind howls?”

That has her visibly tensing, shoulders squaring as her free hand touches her belly, then anchors itself with a firm grip on the back of the nearest chair.

“They do say that, yes.”

What story could possibly have her so rattled? He’s not fool enough to press her for an answer, that’s for sure.

Predictably, perhaps inevitably, someone else does it for him.

“Can we hear the story?”

She shakes her head, her smile strained, a flash of _something_ in her eyes, a dangerous glint that’s gone in a blink.

(When did he start studying her so closely? And why? It feels vaguely illicit—even though he means no ill, harbours no indecent thoughts.)

“Perhaps another time. The story is far from romantic; it doesn’t lend itself well to the occasion.”

It’s calm, amicable enough, but adamant nevertheless. No one questions her. Next thing he knows she’s putting on that bright face he’s not buying, and announcing a game of sorts, one of a series in a competition at the end of which the couple with the most points gets to exchange vows before Saint Valentine.

Bloody brilliant. He most certainly didn’t sign up for this. He’s going to have a word with John—his mate may not be at fault for Robin’s utter oblivion of the holiday, but surely he could have at least given him a fair warning?

Awkwardly he removes himself to a remote corner, trying to blend in with the wall behind him. He’s not bitter per se, if a bit jealous—he’s had love, and in that he’s already more fortunate than some people will ever be. It’s just, well, awkward. And a bit sad.

That golden ceiling over his head spares him from overthinking, the details of the masterpiece providing ample distraction to a measly—in comparison at least—but dedicated craftsman like himself. How many of those tiny winged angel heads perched in the centre of each plate? He follows the pattern all the way to the opposite end of the room, tuning out everything else, until the flooring plates continue into arches and his gaze drops below onto the open dining room door.

A flash of white, windswept and gossamer, disappears behind the corner.

His body jerks unbidden, as if pulled forth by an invisible force, before he stops himself following.

An employee, probably.

“One hundred eighty-three.” It’s her, sauntering towards him in that majestic gown and dramatic makeup like some queen of old time, and all he can do is stare dumbly until she smirks at him. “You were going to try and count the angels.”

Robin grins—caught, then. He can’t say he minds. Definitely not if it means he gets to steal a moment with her while the others fumble with whatever couple-y tasks she’s set them.

“Is that something people do often?”

“Some of them. Not everyone has an eye for detail.”

“Woodcarving’s a bit of a hobby.”

“You’re going to enjoy the Great Hall then. The woodwork is marvellous, and Marco’s doing a wonderful job maintaining everything.”

“Everything I’ve seen so far is quite breathtaking.” She’s closer to him now than ever, in full view for the first time, and suddenly it’s all he can do to keep himself from staring. The rekindled flame of her candle flickers, making her eyes sparkle just so, and she lets out a soft hum of contentment at his compliment. She loves this place, loves it deeply, takes in the room now with a hint of pride and affection, and Robin’s mouth has a mind of its own as it adds: “Stunning, in every way.”

Her eyes snap back to him, her brows furrowed as she stares him down.

Fuck, does she think he’s flirting with her?

Is he?

“Milady—”

But she’s already stalking off to rejoin the rest of her charges, declaring a winner and moving on with the tour, leaving a leaden weight in Robin’s stomach as he trudges miserably behind.

He tries to enjoy the upstairs, truly he does, for it’s no less gorgeous than the lower floor, her shared knowledge no less intriguing. It doesn’t sit right with him though, not after the offence he’s clearly guilty of regardless of his good intentions. The castle’s charms are wasted on him as he begins forging an explanation—nay, apology.

A chance presents itself when the next wretched game is launched. She doesn’t join him in his secluded space this time, so Robin approaches her instead, drawn like a moth to the flame of the candle she’s holding.

“You were quite right,” he starts casually, all too aware of his pesky nerves. “These carvings are exquisite. I am especially fond of that one over there.”

Her gaze follows to where he’s pointing, and she tilts her head at him, eyes narrowing.

“Wrath,” she says slowly—and no more. If she understands his flimsy, roundabout attempt at reconciliation, she doesn’t acknowledge it.

A sigh escapes her instead as she shakes her head at the clumsy efforts of the couples. People can hardly recognise a pine from an oak nowadays, much less a medicinal plant from a poisonous one. The task’s going to keep them busy for a while.

“Maybe they expected the newlywed game,” he shrugs, offering her a small grin. God, he hopes it works.

“And normally that’s exactly what they’d be getting.” She huffs out, whether frustrated with them or with Robin or even angry with herself for engaging him he doesn’t know.

He’ll just wait her out then. Refrain from stealing glances at her. Except that curl falling across her face is drawing him to distraction. His unconscious didn’t lie—she _is_ stunning, even in her ire, even with that angry vein popping in her forehead.

“People vex me.”

Robin blinks.

“I don’t blame you. That Victor bloke was way out of line, not to mention that other bastard. Impressive comeback, though.”

“I don’t need your approval,” she bristles. “And I meant generally, I’m not a people person.”

“Forgive the question,” Robin can’t help himself, fool that he is, ”but why the choice of profession then?”

“I’m a curator. My friend couldn’t make her shift tonight, so I stepped in as a personal favour to her. Not that it’s any of your business.”

With that, she storms off.

Well, that went poorly. She has quite the temper, doesn’t she... Maybe the reasonable thing would be to just let it be. In which case Robin is not a reasonable man, for the option doesn’t sit well with him at all. They’ve started out on the wrong foot, and he wants to fix that—and wants it badly.

Does that make him one of those vexing people she briefly confided in him about?

She needn’t have spoken to him at all, but chose to share that piece of herself anyway. Perhaps all is not lost yet.

Perhaps once she’s no longer on duty, towards the end of the tour, will be a better time to speak without encroaching on her time too much.

So Robin removes himself to the sidelines again, searching marble and wood for traces of that tranquility that caught him by surprise by both its coming and going. What was it about this place that resonated with him on such a deep, unfathomable level? And how does he find it again?

He doesn’t find it among the dozen coats of arms in the next room, stashed away behind the statues lining the staircase, or in the cracks between cobblestones in the courtyard. The canopy of stars overhead pleases him though, the night cradling him gently, and perhaps what he’s looking for is outside, not within, those mighty castle walls after all. Soaking up the brisk air while paying no mind to the teeth-chattering chill, with his face upturned he strays from the group with no particular direction in mind.

The stars dim when he reaches the foot of a tower, and the night goes several degrees darker, the air around him colder. It’s a chill that runs deeper than bone. It springs from within, more menacing than the towering shadow hanging over him.

Robin’s insides squirm, a cold fist squeezing at his heart, a sense of doom upon him.

And then—light.

The candle flickers in the breeze as her free hand reaches for him, eerily pale in the moonlight with stiff fingers grabbing his bicep almost painfully—and she pulls him back from the brink of madness.

One glimpse at her face has his stomach lurching and twisting anew—her features are contorted with an emotion hard to pinpoint (not quite anger, more than fear) but distinctly uncomfortable, and with a single glance upwards she’s dragging him away from the wretched spot and back to the group.

The tour is coming to a close, she tells them with the faintest trace of a quiver in her voice he might be imagining but is rather certain he’s not, and it’s time for them all (not just the winner, then, by the grace of the fairy of love—at which point Robin suppresses a chuckle at her mildly nauseated expression) to say their special vows. A burly, balding man posing as Saint Valentine is waiting for them in the high-ceilinged hall covered in paintings and tapestries, ready to officiate—Robin’s cue to withdraw into the most remote corner and pretend he is anywhere but here. A few whispered words between them, and their extraordinary guide is thanking the group for the visit and wishing them well, leaving them in Valentine’s hands.

That’s it, then. She’s going to disappear through one of the many doors at the opposite end of the room without Robin ever getting the chance to say another word to her. The monk’s speech goes in one ear and out the other as Robin curses his luck—and then she’s walking towards him, and the tidal wave of his relief is far more than he’s any business feeling.

Wordlessly, she motions for him to follow, which Robin does without question, not a word of protest even as she leads him through a pitch-black crypt before they emerge in a moonlit park.

She won’t meet his eyes, but starts down the path instead, hand absently brushing the manicured shrubs flanking it. Clearly she has something to say, so he curbs his own desire to ask her name at least, and waits.

“History isn’t just about the dead or the inanimate,” she starts without preamble. “It’s about people.”

Oh. Shit. His reaction to her confession about people skills—something she’s clearly self-conscious about—seems entirely inadequate now. But she’s still talking, in this soft and intimate tone no less, and heaven knows why she’s chosen him for this, but he certainly isn’t complaining.

“It should be treated like a living thing, not something outside of us but instead happening to us all, right now. Otherwise it’s just a bunch of dry facts, of dates and names with little real meaning. I love my current job,” she declares with sweeping passion, turning to look him in the eye at last, “but I do miss the old one sometimes—making history come alive for people. So I do a few tours every year.”

It’s an apology, he knows, for her outburst earlier, but he finds he didn’t really need one from her. Hopes she didn’t feel obliged to make one to prevent a formal complaint, because that couldn’t be further from the truth.

In truth, she’s been brilliant the whole hour or so, knowledgeable and passionate, and despite the slight inconvenience of the special romantic tour she’s absolutely not to blame for, Robin has no regrets and will indeed be leaving the place wide-eyed and yearning for more. And that’s the point, isn’t it?

Knowledgeable and passionate, with perhaps the exception of those few times that called for her to repeat tired lines and humour the commercial side of the holiday.

“But not Valentine’s Day,” he prompts with a smile.

She stops in her tracks then—and lets out a soft laugh that dissolves the tension of before.

“No, not Valentine’s Day.”

An ease settles between them, a lightness close to what Robin’s been chasing all night. Their steps are unhurried, but still Robin slows down even more to delay the inevitable as the door on the other end of the too-short path looms ever closer. He rather prefers more of her company just yet to the lonely, albeit short, drive back to town that awaits him. She seems amenable, adjusting to his pace, even as she struggles one-handed to gather her cape about her and keep out the cold.

“May I?” he offers, reaching for the candle, which she hands over after only a breath of hesitation.

She pulls the garment tight around her, settling into the heavy warmth of it with a contented sigh, and Robin smiles—it’s decidedly not what she’d been aiming for with tonight's look, but right now, bundled up to her chin and scrunching her nose at the tickle of the fabric, she’s simply adorable.

“I’m not normally such a downer,” he confesses. “In fact, I’ve been accused of being quite the romantic.” And perhaps it’s the breeze that for once caresses rather than nips or whips, or the warmth of her moving next to him, the silent something surrounding them, but his heart seems to spill secrets of its own volition. “Not since my Marian’s passing a few years ago.”

At that, she stops without warning, halting his movement, too, with a hand on his arm.

“I’m sorry,” she says squeezing gently. Glassy-eyed, she looks over his shoulder, out at the forest beyond the castle walls. “Loss does that, doesn’t it? Steals your illusions.”

She’s lost someone, too.

It pains him to have brought back that lingering ache that fades with time but never truly disappears, and he itches to lay a hand over hers but the stupid candle bars him from the simple, all-important gesture. He only has words, then, to try and settle her heavy heart and his.

“I like to think it merely obscures them. That the potential is still there, only dormant. All shadows must lift eventually.”

Robin strives to fill his voice with with conviction, and for the most part he succeeds, even though there’s still that last vestige of doubt chipping away at his lost and regained optimism. She, however, searches not his words but his eyes for—what, he knows not, but he hopes to god she finds whatever it is she seeks.

The delicate, fragile moment of understanding between them passes, and much to his chagrin she becomes more guarded by the second, her face closing off to his questing eye.

“So you are a sap after all,” she throws back with a valiant smirk and a half-hearted eyeroll. “Traitor.”

“If milady says so.” And he most certainly is flirting with her now. There’s no denying it this time.

“I prefer Regina,” she corrects gamely, her hand cold as he clasps it in his with an offer of his name in return. “And dormant or no, I’ll definitely be sticking to children’s tours in the future.”

“You do those? Roland would love that. He’s just turned five, and has his head full of knights and dragons.”

“Oh, I remember that age.” A sentimental smile plays on her lips, her expression half-proud, half-nostalgic, a state Robin recognises well from poring through old baby pictures, and she positively beams as she offers: “You should bring him along for Fairy Tale Castle, or our Children’s Day special.”

That bright smile falls then, her eyes darting between his before falling on the door they’re standing a mere step away from.

“All of our guides are outstanding,” she adds hastily. “He’ll be in good hands with them. And there’s a historical fencing group with regular performances here in the castle grounds.”

Robin swallows heavily against the disappointment bubbling up bitter in his mouth. For one hopeful moment, he let himself believe there was—or could be—something between them. That she felt it, too—the tickle in his belly, the warmth in his chest even as his heart couldn’t quite make up his mind as to whether to quicken at the sight of her or instead be soothed by her presence.

But Regina’s made it perfectly clear her invitation is of a strictly professional nature.

Robin doesn’t mention John, the leader of the group she’s just recommended, is his best mate, doesn’t bring up the reason of his own visit at Vesnohrad, because what’s the point really when she’s clearly not interested anyway?

“Thank you, I’ll take that under advisement.”

It might be time to back away, to bow out and let her enjoy her time off (her shift is over after all, he shouldn’t keep her—even though she’s the one who initiated this), but there’s one thing still niggling at his mind.

“May I ask you something? About the castle.”

She breathes more easily at his addition, and much as that saddens him, at least she seems happy enough to humour that kind of request.

“Is the angel ceiling still haunting you then?” she teases.

“Not the ceiling, no. My compliments on the pun though.”

“I’m glad you appreciate it—I’m sure many, including my boss, would be opposed to my take on that particular aspect of our castle. Some like to maintain an air of mystery about the legends and the hauntings.”

“But not you?”

He’s not just stalling at this point—although that’s certainly part of it. There’s more though. She fascinates him, regardless of the fact he might never see her again (he suspects he will) or get to entertain any romantic possibilities (he can’t believe the only woman he’s wanted that with in years has not only been in his life for less than two hours but in that scant time has put a stop to even the possibility of it). Still, her insights resonate with him, and the ease with which she speaks now that the air’s been cleared between them acts somewhat as a balm for his bruised ego.

“Legends have a place in our culture,” she explains, “and they play an important part. Superhero stories, myths, fairy tales... People enjoy them for a reason, and as a historian, I recognise that. That doesn’t mean we should distort historical facts, glorify the vile, or vilify the victims. Once we create fictional versions of verified facts to avoid facing harsh truths, we’re undermining the very point of studying history—and that’s where I draw the line.”

Robin’s mind drifts, transporting him back beneath that horrid tower and the overwhelming sense of doom before she rescued him. He knows she’ll hate the question before it properly forms on his tongue—can’t explain how, he just _knows_. And yet he has to ask.

“That tower—does it have a story, too? What happened there?”

The effect his words have on her couldn’t be more drastic if he’d doused her with a bucketful of cold water. She blinks, swallows, and pierces him with a glare so sharp he falters under it. Snatching the candle holder from him, she yanks the door open and motions him through with a curt:

“I’d rather tell you about the ceiling, if it’s all the same to you.”

* * *

 The drive to John’s seems never-ending.

Robin is careful, mindful of the twists and turns, slower on the winding road than perhaps necessary. But he’s preoccupied, his mind straying from the task at hand, and so the extra caution cannot hurt.

He can’t fathom what he’d done wrong exactly, but as Regina led him through the travertine cave out into the courtyard and beyond the gate, professionalism incarnate to the point of madness as she went on about masters from Innsbruck and their handiwork, the castle walls suddenly dwarfed in comparison with those springing up between them.

Is this life’s way of warning him against taking the massive step he’s considering?

A sharp turn, and another—and the castle disappears from sight, swallowed up by forest. Robin’s heart sinks deeper and deeper with every passing mile, his gut protesting the distance between him and those aged walls.

It’s baffling, to say the least.

And yet, by the time a flustered, borderline guilty John lets him in to the elated shrieks of a way-past-his-bedtime Roland, Robin’s mind is made up.

After all, his gut has never before led him astray.


	2. Chapter 2

She never wanted it to be this story.

There are, after all, plenty of others to choose from. The castle is steeped in legends, its chambers and halls teeming with ghosts and spectres of those who once, back when they were flesh and blood, used to roam the winding hallways, to dine and dance in the Golden Hall, or daydream in the shade of the ancient linden.

With such a rich abundance to choose from, why not leave  _ hers _ alone? 

For ten long years, Regina’s hoped they'd pick another one—any one but this—and year after year her wish had come true.

Not this time.

She stares at the memo no one’s bothered to run by her—not that she’s surprised, frankly, after their most recent dispute. With a frustrated growl, she crumples it into a tight little ball and tosses it across the room, watching it bounce off the wall and roll pathetically into the corner as her nails dig painfully into her palms.

The legend (most would say  _ legends _ , of course, but not Regina) of the White Lady and the Black Lady of Vesnohrad has always spoken to her like no other. It touches something deep in her soul, strikes a hidden chord that makes her chest vibrate with sweet melancholy. If she were to choose an art form to capture its sheer gut-wrenching, heart-rending (quite literally, actually) intensity, it would be a lament.

They've chosen to play it for laughs and giggles.

It’ll be handled the same as every other festival piece before. Sure, one can count on a certain degree of shallow, barely-there gloom, a moment of shock and pity quickly dissolved for the sake of entertainment. Education is a fixture of the event, but not its sole purpose.

Surely she, as curator, has some say in the matter?

Three sharp raps on the door, and the annoying little bell chimes as she barges in without bothering to wait for an invitation.

“Why the simmering rage, dearie?”

Gold doesn’t so much as look at her from behind his desk, examining the newest piece Regina secured for the museum—and one she already authenticated. How very like Gold to use her considerable talents for the institution while at the same time snubbing her skills and effort at every turn.

“You know why,” Regina grits out. “There's plenty of other material we could tap into.” Cruel and corrupted castellans, jealous regents spurred by wagging tongues to commit heinous crimes, maidens tormented and vilified and branded witches, poor counts and cursed palatines doomed to loneliness—gone but never forgotten, kept alive in tragic tales and spooky stories. All very popular. All done before, but so what?

“I’d expect more from you, Regina,” says Gold in a tone that clearly suggests he very much would not. “Contrary to your sentimental notions, the stories aren’t special. Jealousy, gossip, debauchery—common motifs in history and art. Trite, if you ask me. Cheap.”

“If you think so little of the story, why pick it at all?”

“It’s a crowd-pleaser.”

“I thought our mission is to preserve culture.”

But even she cringes at her petulant retort. Every museum, if it wants to survive, must also concern itself with less lofty notions such as funding and how to get it, how to draw visitors and turn a profit. To be an asset to theirs, she’s had to learn to be a good businesswoman, too.

And of course Gold doesn’t let her get away with it—her heated statement plays right into his cards.

“You know it's not as simple as that,” he sneers. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be such a good curator, and I wouldn't still be employing you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”

Regina is livid. Biting her tongue to suppress the dozen choice words rushing forth, she inhales the charged air in an effort to control herself. There could be literal sparks flying from her eyes for all Gold cares, and still he wouldn’t budge—would only take pleasure in her anger and frustration.

How dare he keep her out of the loop on this in the first place?

She’s always had a seat at the table, has been involved in the Festival of Ghosts and Spectres ever since she and Daniel first moved to the nearby village a decade earlier. Year after year she’d join the troupe of actors for those few weeks in the spring they rehearsed and performed in the halls, courtyards, and underbelly of the castle, taking small parts even after she worked her way up to curator and was only expected to serve as consultant to the writer and director hired for the task.

For years she’d steered them from  _ her _ story, offering other bait, shinier toys for them to play with, juicy stories to reenact.

Yet no other deserved more to be told.

”Put me in charge then.” The words seem to erupt of their own volition, but they feel right. If the story must out for all the world to see, then she must be the one to tell it. “There's more to the story than meets the eye, and I'll prove it to you.”

“Perhaps. But can you prove it to our visitors—and will they care?”

Regina doesn’t flinch under Gold’s skeptical glare or waver in the face of his derisive tone. 

“Yes.”

And she waits. She prepares herself for a barrage of mocking comments on how she doesn’t know the first thing about scripts or directing. And if by some miracle Gold skips his usual snide remarks, she still needs to be on high alert. Gold doesn't just hand out favours. He’ll name a price—he always does.

The antique grandfather clock behind his desk ticks away. Gold stares at her. Regina feels sweat beading at the roots of her hair, but she doesn’t budge.

“And if I take the risk and you fail?” he asks with a pointed look and a nasty glint in his eyes.

Oh.

Of course.

Of course he’d use this as a bargaining chip to get his way on the one issue dividing the staff for the last few months, resulting in an impasse. Gold would have long before broken the stalemate citing his authority as director, were it not for the fact that his own wife has passionately opposed his proposal.

“If I fail,” Regina manages evenly, even though her stomach quivers at the rising stakes, “you get to cast your holograms starting next year. But if I succeed, the actors stay.”

“You have yourself a deal.

* * *

 

“Congratulations, madam director!” Tink exclaims as Regina slides onto the bench, and fidgets impatiently while she orders. 

“I’m not sure that’s even accurate yet,” she sighs. Perhaps shooting off that group message the moment she left Gold’s office wasn’t the best idea, but they’d have found out soon enough anyway, and she wanted them to hear it from her. Besides, for all the confidence she’d comported herself with before Gold, gnawing doubts had already settled in, and she’s been trying to open up more to her friends in times of trouble instead of bearing the burden alone. “I might end up hiring someone. It’d still work, just as long as I get enough of a say—”

“Nonsense, Regina,” Tink interrupts, chewing furiously on her dumplings before chattering on. “You’re ready for this. You’ve been hanging around those guys every year, picking their brains and picking up things. I can’t wait for you to direct me.”

Tink is the youngest of them, the newest here, too, but she’s wormed her way into their midst quickly, even though her perkiness and inexhaustible energy are an occasional source of exasperation. Regina rolls her eyes even now, but the gesture lacks bite—their presence might annoy her sometimes, but the stressed knot in her gut loosened the moment she spotted her friends.

Grateful though she is for the encouragement, Regina can’t hear any more before they have all the facts, including what’s at risk. Tink, Mary Margaret, and Mal all share Regina’s view that live actors can’t be replaced by mere holograms, no matter how impressive or cost-effective such modernisation might be, and have been in her corner and against Gold’s plans—and now the issue will be decided by the success or failure of the festival. By  _ Regina’s  _ success or failure.

“If I mess up,” she confesses quietly, “a lot of people will be screwed.”

“Then don’t mess up,” Mal shrugs. She’s already downed her usual pre-lunch shot of hard liquor, but she’s never needed liquid courage to speak bluntly.

“Helpful,” Regina mutters.

“Regina, why do you think I agreed to loan you that painting after having repeatedly refused Gold’s offers and pretty much everyone else’s?”

It had certainly been a triumph to gain Mal’s trust (and, in time, friendship) where so many others had failed, and procure that painting, and many other artifacts since, from her vast private collection.

“You’re capable and dedicated,” Mal tells her, and she’s not one for empty words, so Regina’s cheeks grow hot from the compliment. “And you obviously have a soft spot for that story. So use that passion—pour it into the damn play for everyone else to feel, too.”

“Gold says it’s trite and pathetic, but he’s wrong. So is everyone else. Even you.”

Mary Margaret, suspiciously quiet until then, raises an eyebrow at Regina’s pointed look, but doesn’t seem offended. She fawned over the legends that one occasion Regina’d allowed the subject, but much like everyone else didn’t see beyond the tragic romance of the former or the wholly unromantic tragedy of the latter. She doesn’t argue, merely swallows the last sugary bite of her funnel cake and leans forward with a smile.

“So prove us wrong. Show us why it really matters. We have faith in you, Regina.”

A soft  _ thank you _ forms on Regina’s lips—and sticks to the roof of her suddenly dry mouth.

A gaggle of children have emerged in the alley, jostling and laughing between the rows of stalls, and in their midst a man with sandy hair and a flash of dimples, with a warm chuckle that sounds decidedly familiar.

Could it be—?

“Oh my god, Regina,” gasps Tink. “Is that him? The guy from the V-day tour?”

Regina groans inwardly—how on earth could Tink have guessed? And why is she, Regina, all flushed all of a sudden?

“You still owe me for that one,” Regina fires back, hoping to steer the conversation into safer waters. “You know I hate those special tours, which is why I never—”

“What guy from the V-day tour?” Mary Margaret chimes in, and great, now Regina’s never gonna hear the end of it. “Oh, Robin? He’s new here, sells these wonderful wood carvings across from David and me. He teaches kids archery, too.”

Well, that explains both the dozen or so children in his wake and the bow and arrows slung over his shoulder. He’s even dressed for the part, complete with tunic, boots and cape—he could have stepped right out of the pages of Henry’s book, so striking is the resemblance to the revered folk hero.

“Won’t you go over and say hello?” gushes Mary Margaret, waving at him enthusiastically. “I’m sure he’ll be glad to see a familiar face.”

“Stop that,” Regina hisses, mortified.

Luckily, Robin is otherwise occupied and doesn’t seem to notice them at all.

She rolls her eyes in exasperation, seeking out Mal’s for reassurance. She’s kept silent this whole time, the only one not to gang up on Regina. The only one, surely, to see the absurdity of the other two’s baseless assumptions.

But Mal’s wearing this curious, knowing look, and Regina can’t help but feel a tiny prick of betrayal—and a burgeoning offshoot of panic.

In a moment of vulnerability, she’d revealed much too much of herself to this supposed stranger whom she believed she’d never see again. He’d made her feel things she had no business feeling, and she’d been relieved to leave him behind—even though her quite literally having run from him stills makes her face burn with embarrassment.

She thought she’d never see him again, and now here he is.

* * *

 

It’s definitely an adjustment—but a surprisingly easy one.

Roland loves his new kindergarten, adores the little cottage Robin’s rented and hopes to save up to buy, and can’t get enough of the Folklore Village, where he spends his afternoons “helping” in Robin’s shop or exploring the neighborhood with his new friends.

As for Robin, it all just fits.

The inexplicable pull this place had had on him right from the start has been answered, and it’s tethered him to the castle grounds in a way he neither could nor would help. He’s always enjoyed his job, but travelling from fair to fair to sell his wares and showcase his skills with the bow had been far from ideal with a little tot. Now he gets to provide Roland with a more stable life, to live amongst fellow craftsmen and historical martial artists, and to wake up surrounded by fragrant forest in view of the picturesque castle with its steep roofs and towers reaching for the sky.

And, with a bit of luck, to get to know the stunning woman without her veil.

If he’s honest with himself, the place owes part of its charm to her, and not only because of the terrific tour or exquisite exhibitions she’s put together. In the short time they spent together, two souls marked by loss harbouring a shared resentment of the kitschy holiday, the air seemed to zing with an energy the likes of which Robin’d never experienced before but longed to explore.

Sadly, she didn’t seem to share that desire.

Which is why he’s currently pretending not to have noticed her by that trestle table on the far left, nursing a glass of lemonade and doing her level best to melt into her surroundings—even though his heart lurches at the sight of her. With a pang of guilt, he pretends not to see Mary Margaret waving at him, and crouches to adjust one of his little charges’ scarf instead.

Regina deserves time to adjust to the thought of him here, and he’s going to give it to her. They’re bound to run into each other sooner or later—he’d rather she be as comfortable as possible with the idea by the time it happens.

And, then—well, they’ll go from there.

* * *

Regina buries herself in work.

Not that she hasn’t always spent more than her share of hours hunched over some old document or poring over a loan agreement, but on top of her curator duties she now has a play to oversee—and after about two weeks of alternating between the museum and Henry with hardly a moment for sleep much less self-care, she must face the very real possibility she may be in over her head.

Only after her friends corner her in her office one afternoon and give her a stern talking to ( _ you’re not alone in this, Regina _ , and the tears welling in her eyes are purely of exhaustion, or so she tells herself) does she finally yield and revisit the multitude of offers of assistance friends and colleagues have extended to her—ones she initially turned down out of a misplaced fear they might be a mere formality (and yes, okay, out of pride).

So now she has Tink to coordinate the actors, and Mal to help get sponsors in, and Mary Margaret and David to work on a new routine with the Vesnik historical fencing group. Granny Lucas will be catering, Emma’s volunteered herself and a few colleagues as security, and Belle’s tenacious research may have turned up little so far but having her as an ally certainly has done wonders for morale.

And then August Booth, a talented writer spurned by Gold a couple of years before, agrees to write the script for Regina, and things finally, finally start moving in the right direction.

The greatest stumbling block, though?

She still doesn’t have the story down.

The script will be a collaboration, because even though Regina has dabbled in writing before, her specialty is studies and articles for academic journals; creative writing is simply not her domain. But to get ahead with it, they need an outline. And to make an outline, Regina will have to collect the bits and pieces her research of years has turned up and assemble them into a whole, filling in the missing chunks as best she can.

And then she’ll need to tell it to August.

Her throat tightens at the thought, fingers clenching into an anxious fist atop the pile of books she’s been examining.

What they contain she’s long known by heart, and new information is scarce. Assumptions are all very well, and most of hers are at least somewhat reasonable, but there’s no hard evidence to be found. Her best ally, in fact, in piecing the legend together, has been her intuition.

And intuition, while certainly a useful tool, is generally frowned upon in scholarly circles unless it leads to verifiable facts.

“Regina, please don’t take this the wrong way,” Belle says over the counter, eyeing the modest pages she’s located and photocopied for Regina as her hushed voice rings through the empty library, “but the play’s a work of fiction, right? You’re allowed to call on poetic licence.”

It’s true enough. Regina knows this. She’s taking this to heart much too much, has allowed this endeavour to take over her life when she shouldn’t and needn’t have.

She’s not ready to bare her soul though, so she merely deposits the pages into her bag with a small smile.

“Thank you for this, Belle.”

“Of course. I’ll let you know if there’s more. Even though we both know you’ve dug much deeper than anyone in the past years.”

The implication is clear—if Regina hasn’t found anything in all that time, chances are Belle won’t either, not in a hurry anyway. But Belle’s great at her job, dedicated and undaunted by both the futility of the task and Gold’s position on this. How the plucky, kind librarian found herself married to the likes of Gold is beyond Regina, but then she knows better than anyone not to judge or pry.

Besides, she has other couples’ tales to delve into.

* * *

She’s curled up on the bed with books, journals, and scattered pages carefully spread atop the sheets when Henry lets himself in with a clink of his keys and excited chatter—he’s not alone.

Regina scrambles out of bed, hissing and  stretching stiff limbs as she pads into the kitchen, where the sight of Henry’s backpack propped against the wall greets her before she comes upon her son and a younger friend she’s never met before.

“Hi, sweetheart,” she greets, her heart fluttering as ever at the sight of her precious boy. “How was practice today?”

“Cool! We’re really making progress. You gotta come see—but not before Fawkes and I get it just right.”

“I’m looking forward to it. And who’s your friend?”

“Mom, meet Roland. Roland, this is my mom.”

“Regina,” she supplies, beaming at the little boy with a shock of dark curls.

“Hi, Regina!” the little charmer beams back, a set of dimples on display as he shakes her hand with gusto, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Henry’s gonna lend me his book on birds!”

“And are you also in the group, Roland?”

“No, but I wanna be! Daddy says once I’m all settled in my new kindy, I can join.”

“Robin and Roland just moved here. Robin’s an archer,” Henry informs, and she can tell how close he is to taking a page out of Roland’s book and bouncing with excitement. “And he’s pretty awesome. He said he’d teach me—but I need to ask your permission first. It’s okay, right? Mom?”

_ Robin and Roland just moved here. _

She knows this already—or should have known, after their almost-meeting in the Folklore Village. Perhaps being confronted with his adorable son—Roland, that’s the memory the boy’s name stirred, strolling in the moonlit garden after the Valentine’s tour—is what makes reality finally sink in.

“Mom?  _ Please? _ ” Henry adds hastily, blessedly attributing her lack of response to his lack of manners.

He’s so obviously blown away by the prospect, and frankly, Regina can’t think of a good—reasonable, unselfish—reason why she shouldn’t allow it.

“I think that can be arranged,” she tells him, pressing a kiss to his forehead and ruffling Roland’s hair before she helps them finish the sandwiches they’ve started on and leaves them to play while she retreats to her room.

She hasn’t seen Robin since that unfortunate lunch episode, and she’s glad for it. If almost meeting him was awkward, how much more awkward would an actual conversation be?

He must know she’s here—of course he does, he knows where she works. Mary Margaret’s probably already informed him they’d seen him that one time (discretion’s never exactly been her strong suit), so he’s probably figured out Regina hadn’t talked to him by choice. God, he must think her pathetic. And rude.

_ That tower… What happened there? _

She’d yanked him back, that’s how he knew. She’d seen him standing under that cursed tower and couldn’t help rushing forth to get him out of harm’s way—but he’d been in no danger just then, had he? Just a legend, a ghost of a memory clinging to the place, chilling her to the bone every time because she’s foolish and overly invested in a tale of two lovers long gone from this world.

She’d yanked him back, and so he asked, and she panicked. Refused to answer, decided instead to prattle on about rosettes and arches and consoles, ending the night and (so she thought) their brief acquaintance with a cowardly escape that made her look exactly like the pathetic idiot she is.

And now he’s here. They’re practically neighbours, with friends in common, their children thick as thieves already. There’s no way they can avoid each other forever.

Will he still try to flirt with her?

Not that she’d want him to. Really, she couldn’t care less. She’s not looking to date—not now, not anytime soon, and certainly not a random stranger who spent two hours bantering with her, tricked her into revealing more of herself than she’d ever planned to, and then witnessed her humiliation.

(None of that or really his fault, she knows perfectly well, but that’s a line of thought she won’t entertain tonight.)

Right now, what she wants or doesn’t want is irrelevant anyway. Robin won’t speak to her, much less flirt. And that, Regina tells herself as she flips a page, suits her just fine.

Immersed in sorting through scraps of contradictory or downright lacking data, she’s jolted out of her activity by the muffled but still warm timbre of a decidedly familiar voice answered by Roland’s delighted squeal of  _ daddy! _

She only emerges after the door slams behind them, and spends the rest of the evening sweating over Henry’s algebra homework, cocooned in the comfortable, safe bubble of their routine.

By the end of the week, she’ll have nigh-bumped into Robin a total of three times.

Still Robin doesn’t approach her, and Regina’s caught between relief and disappointment, his (now blatantly obvious) lack of interest altogether too infuriating due to the confusion it brings into her unfortunate heart.

* * *

He’s no right to feel this disappointed by her absence when he picks up Roland.

After all, he’s not there to see her. At least this way he no longer needs to worry she might take his appearance as a an invasion of privacy, a crossing of boundaries she clearly wants to uphold. He won’t force his company on her, no matter how chagrined he feels by her refusal to so much as acknowledge him.

“Daddy, Henry let me borrow a book about birds, so that I can learn all about them before I start training them! And Regina says the library has tonnes of books about knights and castles—even this castle! Can we go look? Please, Daddy?”

The idea isn’t new, but Roland doesn’t know that—and yet he’s asking for something Robin’s been contemplating for a while now but hasn’t quite gotten to it for various reasons.

At his answering nod, Roland’s eyes go wide.

“Can we go right now?”

And so they do.

It’s perilously close to the closing hours, but the librarian—Belle, he soon learns—beckons them in anyway, amused and charmed by Roland’s antics as she pulls out a handful of books about castles and knights in shining armour on valiant steeds, complete with a colouring book full of Vesnohrad’s finenesses.

“Will there be anything for you?” Belle offers with an expression that clearly states how disappointed she’ll be if he were to refuse.

“Actually—yes.” It is rather odd to be on tenterhooks about this, right? “I was wondering if you have anything on the legends surrounding this castle. Perhaps about the White Lady?”

“Ah, yes, of course,” Belle smiles knowingly—Robin’s probably neither the first nor the last to take an interest. “Not the Black Lady, too?”

“Please.”

He expects her to point him to one of the many shelves crowding the space, but she reaches into a drawer instead.

“I’m afraid I only have this one. One of our curators is working on a project, so everything else is on loan with her. This will be enough to give you the gist of the stories though—or their most popular version anyway.”

“There are more versions?”

“Regina—Dr Mills—believes so. She thinks the legends are at odds with facts. But it’s not my place to talk about her research. You might want to check out our Festival of Ghosts and Spectres—see her take on the subject, and have a fun time with your son.”

So Regina will be telling the story she was so reluctant to address to an even wider audience now. What could possibly have made her change her mind?

Either way, it’s an opportunity he can’t pass up.

“That I shall.”

* * *

Roland asks for four bedtime stories from his fresh haul of library books, and gets three before Robin puts an end to this decadence and tucks him in for the night. 

Then he finally starts on his own bedtime stories.

In these, there’s no happy ending to be found.

The White Lady—or so the tale goes—was once a young maiden whose sweetheart died at the hands of a cruel, lecherous castellan. Stricken with grief over her dead fiance and forced to endure the castellan’s despicable advances, her heart broke. Her ghost’s been haunting the castle ever since, her wails echoing through the vast halls whenever the wind picks up.

As horribly heart-wrenching as the tale is, it doesn’t come as a shock—he’d surmised as much from the casual remarks on his first night here.

What does knock the air out of him is the illustration atop the next page.

It’s a tower he recognises, a shape that strikes him as ominous even as an innocent sketch, and has a dark sense of foreboding creeping through his veins.

The Black Lady perished beneath that tower, slain by a faithless husband spurred by idle rumours and baseless allegations, forced to end her life by throwing herself off the tower and into the moat—and with a babe in arms. Her miraculous ascent towards the sky—proof of her fidelity— seems to have hardly put her soul to rest, as she, too, roams the castle grounds beneath the dark veil of grief and reproach.

Not that anyone can blame her.

Robin’s heart darkens, a heaviness settling over him, a visceral longing he can’t account for.

In the guise of answers he’s only found more questions, tougher ones and hard to properly articulate.

And there’s only one person who can answer those.

Regina.

She’d been dressed as her, he knows now, back on Valentine’s Day—all in black without a splash of colour aside from her burgundy lipstick. She wouldn’t tell the tale he’s just read in the book, had whisked him away from the fateful spot of torment, from under the blasted tower the mere mention of which had her almost cowering.

  
Perhaps it’s time they stop avoiding each other and face this—whatever  _ this  _ is—together.


	3. Chapter 3

For the next week or so, Robin tries and fails repeatedly to reach Regina in her office. She’s out every time he calls, and never returns his messages. Her home is off limits; he won’t seek her out there. It seems like a dead end, until- 

“Daddy, I get to see the castle today! Regina’s taking Henry and me before my first flying lesson!”

 Robin’s chuckle at Roland’s odd phrasing—one his boy absolutely insists on using, undeterred by and even relishing Robin’s amused reaction—is somewhat subdued this time.

 Roland’s been spending a lot of time with his new friends, so much so that he now refers to both mother and son as his new besties. Robin, who’s hosted his own share of playdates and struck up quite the friendship with Henry as well, can’t possibly ignore the lengths Regina’s gone to to avoid him specifically—not that she’s ever let their boys feel any of the chasm between the two of them. Of course, Robin’s resolved from the start not to encroach or use this to get in touch with Regina.

 But now she’s giving Roland a private tour of the castle. She must know Robin will be driving him there, right? After the cold shoulder she’s been giving him, could she finally be willing to face Robin?

 It’s almost too much to hope for. Besides, she still may not want to entertain him for much more than a polite hello as he drops his son off and leaves him in her care. (They trust each other with what’s most precious in their lives, and yet they can’t find it in themselves to bridge this ridiculous gap?) It’s foolish to expect more than civility at this point, but even that will be more than all this dead air.

 Then he sees her at the gate, grinning at Roland barrelling into her legs, and all the rationalising he’s been doing on the way here flies out of the window. Robin is positively _giddy_ as he walks towards them, and what in the bloody hell is it about her? Why the flipping stomach? The stampeding heart? Nothing short of magic could explain this (well, one thing could, but that can't be possible, not this early on and not after one brief encounter weeks ago...right?).

 “Regina—hello.” Not the smoothest start, but at least she nods in kind, even though her smile for Roland wavers as she glances up at Robin. “Thank you for this. Roland’s absolutely thrilled to see the castle.” And he just can't help himself, fool that he is, and adds: “And as outstanding as all the guides no doubt are, they couldn't possibly compete with you.”

 Regina’s brow shoots up, eyes narrowing, as if there were something highly suspicious about the compliment. Perhaps using her exact words from the fateful tour wasn't his brightest idea if instead of helping them fall back into friendly ribbing it'll lead to deeper conflict.

 Henry unwittingly comes to the rescue.

 “Yeah, Mom’s the best,” he grins proudly.

 At that, she beams, mutters an almost shy: “Thanks, sweetheart.”

 They're quite a sight like this—Regina flushed from praise and beaming at her son while his leans into her, hugging her legs still as she combs absent-minded fingers through his unruly curls. Something about the picture, and how Robin finds himself committing it to memory, suckerpunches him, knocks the air out of his lungs, and all he can do is turn around and walk away with an utterly inexplicable bittersweet taste on his tongue.

 “Aren't you coming along?” Henry calls after him, shoulders slumping.

 Well, this is awkward. Has the lad noticed how standoffish he and Regina have been? Or is it an innocent question stemming from this singular situation? How best to handle this?

 Robin rubs the back of his neck.

 “I, uh...I've a few things to take care of.” And it's not a lie per se, but has guilt flaring all the same—for Regina, too, if the way she worries her lip is any indication. “Perhaps another time. You three have fun, all right? And be good for Regina,” he adds for Roland's benefit, and the boy giggles and nods.

 Right. Time to be on his way then.

 “I’ll be picking up Henry today,” she says out of the blue to his departing back, and Robin turns around, astonished. She’s a bit evasive, her eyes wandering in the safe direction of their boys, and Robin can tell she's fighting conflicting impulses, can't be sure why but he’d wager it’s to do with her indirect but indisputable invitation. “From the—”

 “Flying lesson!” Roland chimes in.

 It breaks the tension for a moment, creates a fissure through which her unfettered laugh rings out and meets his own.

 “Yes, after the flying lesson,” she says, her eyes now steady on his. (He could drown in all that brown, might not even fight it to be honest.) “Bye, Robin.”

 “See you later, Regina.”

 He lingers long enough to watch Roland disentangle himself from her legs and run off across the courtyard with Henry in tow, then turns to go.

 That's when he sees her.

 She's leaning against the railing of the rotunda, delicate sleeves of ivory billowing in the breeze, dark locks cascading down her back in gentle waves—a vision on the backdrop of the lake.

 Robin blinks—and she’s gone. 

* * *

 The gesture of goodwill she extended towards Robin lingers at the back of Regina’s mind, an annoying little buzz she can’t shut out—until she reaches Rocinante’s enclosure.

 He greets her with a soft, low _peep_ , and her lips curl at what’s the closest to a sign of affection one can expect from a raptor. She retrieves him from his perch, equips him with hood, bells, jesses before they leave the mews. He’s a predator after all, sharp-eyed and sharp-taloned, hooking into her glove and prodding the treat pouch for meat with that formidable curved beak.

 And then she lets him fly.

 The moment the bird spreads his wings, Regina’s heart soars alongside him towards the sky. It’s as if her spirit and the hawk’s were one, and as he sails through the clouds against the dusky hues of orange and pink, her troubles fade along with the setting sun. Rarely does she feel such profound peace, such unfettered freedom, as when swaths of land stretch beneath her feathery friend, and her own world, too, seems filled with endless possibility.

 Daniel had brought this into her life, his devotion to the ancient art of falconry quite contagious, his patience even in the face of her temper unwavering. Her fiancé may be gone, has been gone for almost a decade, but Henry, though by far the biggest, isn't the only gift he’s left her. No, she has this, too, this partnership, this escape—

  _Kee-eeeee-arr._

 Rocinante’s hoarse scream comes mid-soar, and the bird swoops down, his perilous plunge ending with a flourish as he sweeps just overhead of a ducking newcomer and lands on Regina’s outstretched hand, glaring balefully at none other than Robin Locksley.

 “He can't have mistaken me for prey,” Robin says pensively, as if being almost scalped were nothing out of the ordinary (though his fingers do brush through that floppy hair the hawk’s talons only just missed). “Not with his eyesight.”

 The bird pecks at Regina’s hand, and she releases the treat for him to devour—a small token of gratitude for the show of loyalty. They can be territorial, hawks, but Rocinante is very well-manned and not aggressive.

 “He’s just protective.”

 “That's quite the bond you've got there.” Oh, he has no idea; couldn’t possibly know the kinship she’s felt from the start. “Do you do shows, too?”

 She shakes her head.

 “Rocinante prefers privacy, and I like that it's just the two of us.”

 They've been together from fledgling, forged a connection under Daniel's tutelage, shouldered loss and grief, and learned to flourish side by side. Daniel used to say they're much alike—fierce, independent, wickedly smart. She strokes the taloned feet clutching her fingers, ever in awe of their ferocious power.

 Robin doesn't miss the wistful shift in her demeanour.

 “Shall I come back later? I'd hate to intrude—I am a bit early still.”

 “It’s fine. I did ask you here after all.”

 But she finds she can't look him in the eye, or doesn't want to, stares instead into Rocinante’s beady one—until the traitorous bird pins her with a pointed look and takes flight again, leaving her to deal with the very man he came down to inspect before.

 The very man Regina's been doing her level best to avoid.

 “Congratulations on the play,” he says, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets (he's not wearing any gloves, and the evenings are chilly still). “I hear it's quite the event here at the castle, yeah?”

 He's stalling, it seems, because she can't imagine this is the true reason for his persistent—but not intrusive, never that, she'll give him that—attempts to contact her.

 And she can only hope he’s not going to ask about her equally determined quest to avoid him, because there’s no proper answer to give him. Which is not to suggest she hasn’t come up with plenty of excuses for herself. She’s not at all sure at present how this man, whom she’d let too close on a moonlit walk on the most cliché holiday of the year, feels about it or her, or what he wants from her now that he seems to have decided to give her the time of day again. She’s not sure about him, but her own heart has become and absolute nuisance, slipping and flipping and tripping over itself at even the thought of this annoyingly handsome, dangerously charming man who’s a stellar father, and that certainly helps neither her ridiculous crush (because that’s all this is, or can be, clearly) nor her impossibly inconvenient libido. And their sons are friends—he’s Henry’s friend, too. That’s real. It’s good, and safe, and worth holding on to. Why jeopardise it on account of hormones gone on rampage?

 Besides, she has the festival to focus on.

 “It is,” she nods, another nervous flutter in her belly at the thought of the play. “Even more so than usual. But I hardly think that’s what you wanted to talk to me about.”

 “Actually—it might be. In a manner of speaking.” He takes a deep breath, smiling somewhat sheepishly. “I was intrigued by your tour and went to read up on a few things…”

  _Shit._

 Of course.

 “You're going to ask about the Black Lady again.”

 That has to be it, right? He’s simply curious. Eager, like so many before him, for a captivating tale, for a good mystery. (She’s being unfair, putting him in the same basket as most, but the topic simply puts her on the defensive.)

 “No. Well, yes, eventually,” he corrects at her pointed glare from beneath a raised eyebrow. “That was the original idea, but now—would you mind sharing the White Lady’s true story?”

 “Why do you think there’s more to it than legend says?”

 “There's always more to a story than canon would have us believe.”

 That's...unexpected. But not unwelcome. No, not at all unwelcome. And she might as well tell him—soon she’s going to be telling the whole world after all. Why not him, too? He seems genuinely interested, beyond merely seeking scandal or drama, and not one to rush to judgement.

 But why the White Lady, and why now?

 His answer, perfectly candid and without the faintest hint of doubt or falsehood, bears a thousand questions more.

 “I’ve seen her.” 

* * *

 There it is—that flash of _something_ in her eyes, a palor across her features, mouth slightly agape before she purses her lips.

 “You saw a ghost,” she says, her voice strangely hollow.

 Robin expected disbelief, distrust, perhaps even ridicule. Instead Regina seems careful to not give him much of a reaction, as if that in itself could betray something she's not yet ready for him to know.

 “That I did.”

 “Where?”

 Of all the questions she could ask, this one seems rather random, and Robin answers mechanically, squinting in the near-dark in a vain attempt to read her carefully expressionless face.

 “There's no mention of that in the legend.”

 Is that an accusation? Something she'll hold against him? But if he were making this up, wouldn't he make sure to pick a more likely place?

 She must reach the same conclusion, for she steps closer, fingers grasping and bunching her coat briefly before she lets an arm settle over her belly and tilts her head ever so slightly, surveying him.

 “I know what I saw, Regina. She was right there,” he vows. Elusive, translucent, with hair he itched to run his fingers through, gossamer sleeves like clipped wings unable to take flight. “Right there—until suddenly she wasn't. But—”

 Desperate for her to believe him, and somehow almost certain she already does, Robin searches his pocket for the object he can't explain but hopes she might.

 “I went to look around and found this.”

 The pendant lies cradled in his palm, spread on the handkerchief he wrapped it up in after he’d retrieved it from beneath a conveniently loose cobblestone.

 The rotunda on the lake had been reconstructed recently—there’s no way they'd have missed the golden chain had it been hidden in its cache then, as he knows Regina will also realise. The logical conclusion, of course, would be for someone to have deposited or, more likely, lost it there since. The tree of life is a popular symbol, and many a person wears it as jewellery nowadays, so that would be a perfectly plausible explanation. Unless it’s antique, in which case, well, it’s no longer so easily brushed aside. And so Robin awaits Regina’s judgment with bated breath.

 “It looks old,” she says softly, fingers reaching but stopping just short of touching. “Either authentic or a very good fake.”

 “How old?”

 “Old enough.”

 To have belonged to her, Robin understands —to this ghost, or spirit, to this mysterious White Lady.

 “Can I have it? To check if—”

 “It’s yours.”

 She glances up at him, wide-eyed, like a deer in headlights, then quickly back down.

“Can you—wrap it up for me? I'll return the handkerchief later.”

 He hands her the bundle without question, puzzled by how increasingly distraught she’s become, swallowing a dozen questions as her eyes cloud over and gaze into the distance.

* * *

 It’s foolish of her to think touching the pendant, even if it’s authentic and belonged to the famed White Lady, would do anything. That one time, back when she and Daniel first moved here? That peculiar case of déjà vu? It was a one-time thing. A dream. A vision. A mere trick of her mind.

  _She’s running with the wind, her braid bouncing against her back, and crashes into her stable boy’s waiting arms. The sun is still high in the sky, but there’s work to do—horses to groom and wool to spin, stringent masters and stern mothers to please—and their time together, as always, is short._

_“You can do better, dear. You should aim higher. The castellan’s been asking about you, has his eye on you, would provide for you.”_

_It all fades away though, her mother’s endless tirades and that odious man’s lecherous looks that linger unashamedly and make her skin crawl. It all fades away when they’re like this, when she’s free to feel young and free… To hope. To dream. To love._

_Warm fingers against her neck, then something smooth sliding over her collarbone as a clasp clicks into place. A sunbeam ricochets off the pendant—a beautiful tree much like the one they meet under—and paints the trinket gold. It can’t be, not truly gold or valuable...and even so a stable boy would have been saving up ages for it._

_She will treasure it forever, will clutch it in her sweat-slicked fist like a lifeline as brick after brick (red like her stable boy’s blood spilled over cobblestones) a wall grows from the blighted ground and buries her alive._

 A memory of a different life, Daniel mused when she told him—perhaps that’s why the castle holds so much charm for her she chose it for their new home. Too much coffee, late nights, and an overactive imagination, Regina would reason. They never spoke of it again.

 Yet the experience, and the questions it gave birth to, has haunted her ever since.

 And now, this. This pendant, just like the one in her, well, dream, or vision—but definitely not memory—has resurfaced out of nowhere, in the most peculiar circumstances. To Robin, of all people. Not to Regina, who’s been borderline obsessed for a full decade with its owner’s story.

 And what the fuck does this even mean?

 “Regina?”

 Slightly disoriented, she looks up from the scrap of monogrammed linen creased from her tight grip. Pastel sky fading to grey, and Rocinante soaring overhead. The castle a mere silhouette nestled between hills and treetops, and a pair of too-blue eyes searching her face.

 Weeks of plucking up courage to tell the story—to Robin and August and tens of thousands of others besides—and here she is, bristling at the poorly concealed concern spilling into the single utterance of her name.

 She can do this. She _needs_ to do this.

 “What do you know? About the White Lady?”

 The slight shock at her sudden change of pace doesn’t stop him from promptly obliging—perhaps for fear she might change her mind if he doesn’t seize the opportunity.

 “She was a young girl from a nearby village, in love with a peasant boy. The cruel and corrupt castellan lusted after her, and when she turned down his advances, he attempted to rape her. Her heart broke, and the castellan had her immured to hide from his terrible guilt. Or perhaps to hide from others his atrocious deeds.”

 “That's barely scratching the surface,” she says darkly, unsurprised to hear him repeat the popular version. She supposes she can’t really fault him for that—he’s hardly had access to much else, what with all the sources stacked neatly on her desk. “But I appreciate your calling it by its true name. People usually go out of their damn way to avoid the word _rape_.” Like it’s dirty, more despicable somehow than the deed itself.

 “Belle tells me you’ve been researching her legend.”

 Regina nods, unable to quite meet his eye.

 “She was engaged to the stable boy. Records say he disappeared around the same time she did—murdered, no doubt. As if that could ever wipe him from her heart.”

 There, she said it. Revealed more perhaps than she’d intended—but he already knows she’s invested in the tale, so what difference does it make, really?

 He takes a moment to process that, glancing at the dark, mute shape of the castle.

 “Who could blame her for dying of heartbreak after all that?” he says at long last. “It certainly lends itself better to legends than the death by starvation the bloody bastard condemned her to.”

 And perhaps it’s how Robin’s demeanour changes, from intrigued through soft and intimate only to gain an angry undercurrent towards the end, that finally does away with Regina’s inhibitions.

 “Her heart did break. But she didn't die.” 

* * *

 He’s scarcely any time to process this astounding turn of events before Roland and Henry crash their little tête-à-tête, and Robin bids adieu to any hope of finding out more tonight.

 Regina, however, is full of surprises today.

 And so here they are, in her living room, building a fort for an impromptu sleepover the boys are absolutely over the moon about. All four of them together, for the first time ever. Perhaps it shouldn’t feel as such a momentous occasion, but alas, Robin can’t really help the way his chest floods with warmth as Regina crawls beneath cushions and blankets with an electric torch and a book in response to the story requests the boys pellet her with.

 “What is it, Locksley? Too cool for school?” she teases to the twin giggles of Henry and Roland (the traitor—not that Robin can really blame him), and Robin shakes his head in amusement as he joins them, facing Regina with their toes inevitably touching in the confined space. Soon enough, he’s just as engrossed in her story as her younger audience, forgetting for a moment the one he’s been so keen to discuss.

 “I think they're out,” she whispers mid-sentence, and Robin almost regrets the lost chance to hear the rest of her rendition of Popolvar’s (very familiar) story.

 “Like a light,” he smiles at the sight of their boys curled up in a huddle between them and, sure enough, fast asleep. “No wonder—Roland may have been a bit overexcited at the prospect of finally becoming a trainee falconer.”

 “Believe me, I know the drill,” she chuckles.

 It's easy. Comfortable. Like they've done this a thousand times before. Like this is their normal. Plus, that spark between them, that remarkable sort of energy he can't quite put a finger on.

 “We should—” she says, motioning towards the makeshift exit as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

 “Right.”

 Once back out in the open, Regina points him towards the kitchen. Robin takes the liberty to finish making the coffee left half-done due to bedtime and sets both steaming cups on the table just as she comes in balancing a stack of books, folders, notepads and stickies in her arms.

 “This is what you've been working on, then.”

 “Among other things, yes.”

 “Is every year this,” he searches for the right word, opts for: “intense?”

 “Yes and no. Obviously we build on actual historical facts, but the gaps in sources and the push for entertainment value make some dramatic licence inevitable.” She ponders the contents of her cup, lean fingers toying with the rim. “This year it's personal. I’ve cherished this legend ever since we moved here. I don’t want this to be just another sob story for the masses. What I want is to get to the root of it, to set the record straight. Those people may long be dead, but they deserve to have their true story told.”

 It starts out as a quiet confession, only to morph into fierce determination. Yet somehow it also rings of a pep talk.

 “They couldn't wish for a more dedicated advocate,” he tells her, and Regina may try to hide her smile behind the cup but her eyes betray her anyway. She seems to relax at last, her back still straight like a rod but no longer stiff with tension. Good.

 Robin eyes the stack of papers between them, and she motions for him to help himself. There are photocopies and handwritten notes, timelines and—surprisingly—sketches. Or doodles. He plucks one such page from between the rest.

 The tower, now all too familiar but no less ominous for it, is outlined on the far right, labelled _1461?_ in Regina's neat hand. On the far left, a question mark for birth year, with a smaller _(1430)_. A crumbling wall in the middle, right from a rearing horse.

 The stable boy and the soon-to-be White Lady? But that would mean—

 “I don't know how she survived,” comes Regina's voice as she watches his fingers trace the pencil lines. “I suppose someone must have intervened. Perhaps it was the count himself. Perhaps he imagined himself a heroic rescuer whom a peasant girl couldn't but fall madly in love with. Or perhaps he just didn't care; perhaps she didn't either, anymore, after all she’d lost... Either way, they were married. Soon the castle was rife with gossip about an alleged affair.”

 An astounding discovery looms over him, one both her notes and her words seem to be leading to. He swallows down the question burning on his tongue—best let her get there on her own terms.

 “I’d wager,” he says darkly, “such a union between commoner and aristocracy would have had tongues wagging.”

 “Legend has it she was innocent,” Regina says. She’s watching him carefully now, gauging his reaction, weighing her words.

 “But?” He prompts, because the legends are, in her own words, _barely scratching the surface_.

 “There was a drawing…” She shakes her head as his eyes land on all the sheets spread across the table—the drawing’s not among them, then. That long lost missing link must have her on edge. An irritated little sigh escapes her. “It’s foolish, I know. I can’t prove any of this.”

 “I believe you.” Because he does—simple as that. “You've good instincts, Regina.”

 She returns a soft _thank you_ and makes no attempt to hide her smile this time.

 It spreads across his chest like warm honey and settles like a gentle but indelible imprint on his heart.

 And he really has developed quite the crush on this marvel of a woman, hasn’t he?

 “So, one legend, yeah?” Robin clears his throat, ushering his thoughts into safer waters. “The White Lady _is_ the Black Lady.”

 Regina nods, worrying her lip with her teeth.

 “Is it horrible of me to actually _hope_ she had a lover? I mean, even if she’d properly mourned her fiancé...the affair may have led to the death of her child.”

 Robin’s whole being revolts at that. Whatever the details, whoever had her executed along with an innocent babe is the one to blame—and he tells Regina so, in no uncertain terms.

 “Her sweetheart had been murdered, and she, assaulted. I should hope she found a little happiness after that.”

 Before she plummeted to a gruesome, untimely death from the heights of that wretched tower, that is.

 But he doesn't want to think about that right now. Doesn't want to speak of dark, cruel things when Regina’s looking at him like she is. Wet-eyed, though not tearful; her smile more of a half-smirk now as her tongue peeks out to wet her lips.

 Shit, how he wants to kiss her.

 Instead he reaches for her, and she meets him halfway, and their joined hands lie on the table between them, all gentle squeezes and soft caresses. Somehow charged with meaning. With possibility.

 “Regina—”

 He’s not even sure what it is he’s about to say, but he never gets the opportunity to blunder through it, because suddenly she’s on her feet.

 “I’ll be right back.” 

* * *

 Regina needs a moment.

 Just a minute to gather her bearings. To pull herself together, get her emotions gone haywire in check again. A moment away from Robin’s too-blue, too-kind eyes and surprisingly soft calloused fingers.

 Her bedroom is cool and welcoming, a blessed refuge from the loaded moment before. Well, except for the traitorous mirror that throws her flushed cheeks in her damn face. Did Robin notice?

 He must have. Damn, this is embarrassing. Then again, the way he’s been unwittingly biting down on his smirk was no less suggestive than her schoolgirl blush.

 What are they doing? Clearly there’s something there. Attraction. Intrigue. A kinship she can’t explain. He seems to get her in a way that’s both unnerving and comforting.

 It’s been a while since she wanted to kiss someone, but she sure as hell wants to do it now, with him, this gorgeous man blown so unexpectedly into her life (like the castle is a magnet he, too, just like Regina a decade earlier, cannot resist). What’s stopping her, other than her own fear?

 Well, Regina’s no coward.

 Fixing her hair, she marches herself back into the kitchen, shoulders squared and fingers itching to grab him by the collar and be done with it, to throw aside the nerves and just let herself enjoy—but he doesn’t even raise his eyes from whatever it is he’s gaping at.

 A page of sorts, creased where it was doubly folded, yellowed with age. It appears to have been torn from a book—one she doesn’t recognise and most certainly wouldn’t have lying around so carelessly. Her irritation flickers as curiosity sparks in its place, and she moves to stand behind Robin for a better look.

 “Wha—?”

 But then she sees it, and words fail her.

 Because she’s looking at herself. At herself _and_ Robin, lip-locked no less, and this cannot be—can it?

 “Where did you...?”

 “It just...appeared. I was leafing through your notes, and all of a sudden there it was.”

 It looks just like the missing drawing she’d found a single eyewitness account of, the one she’s basing her entire theory on. The composition, the technique, the style of dress…it all fits. It’s a huge discovery, and she should be celebrating. Only, the faces—holy shit. Nothing could have prepared her for that.

 “Is this...us?”

 Regina winces. Robin keeps glancing up at her then back at the drawing again, completely dumbfounded. His shock, by all logic, must be equal, nay even greater, than hers. She owes him an explanation, an honest one, complete with a personal story—she’d want one if the tables were turned, after all. But she’s not ready, doesn’t have the answers he seeks. She needs time.

 “Could we discuss this tomorrow?”

 She expects him to insist on right now. Hell, she probably would. Robin, however, merely regards her more closely, bewildered features softening—and he nods. She could just kiss—no, _hug_ him, for that.

 Now doesn’t seem like the time for that though, so she waits for him to hunker down under a blanket by the boys’ fortress before clicking the switch and plunging the room in darkness.

 “You were right,” comes Robin’s voice before the bedroom door closes behind her. “She did love again.”

 “Yes. I suppose she did.”

 And then she was punished for it, along with their child, because love and—heaven forbid!—happiness proved to be a capital offence for a woman in her position. Because she wanted to make her own choices, burst free of expectations and throw off shackles of oppression, hurting sensibilities borne of privilege. Something as simple as the path she preferred, the family she wanted, shouldn’t have been unattainable at the risk of death. Not then, and not now.

 Something snaps painfully right around Regina’s gut, then clicks into place. Her distress over the uncanny likeness of their ancestors and its possible implications is pushed aside. There was never any justice for them in their lifetime; perhaps now, in death, wherever they are—whoever they were—she can give them at least a semblance of closure.

 Regina settles at her desk and writes.

 And words, always so reluctant to come forth and come out right, pour faster than the pads of her fingers can dance across the keyboard, imprinting them onto the no longer blank page with feverish keystrokes. Paragraphs form, reshape, reshuffle. The moon lingers and fades, stars twinkle and shut drooping eyes, and the ink seeps from the sky by the time Regina sets down her glasses and rubs her tired eyes.

 There it is, black on white—the story she's going to tell, just the way it needs to be told.

 Not a lament.

 A fight song.


	4. Chapter 4

Robin’s not entirely sure Regina’s going to show up.

Last night was, well, full of surprises. The mysterious appearance of the coveted, long-lost page with their likenesses left Robin utterly flummoxed. Regina, no less shaken by the peculiar revelation, had a twofold shock to come to terms with, and so while he’s been aching for answers, she clearly needed space. That’s why he and their tireless boys are currently partaking in a little picnic to secure some extra time for Regina in the morning, having dropped her a note to join them if and when she so wishes.

So he doesn’t exactly expect her just yet, if at all, and is fully occupied trying to tease the last of a glob of jam out of his giggling son’s curls, when—

“A peculiar place for a picnic—although the linden appreciates the consideration. So do the conservationists.”

As she approaches their rather poor substitute of a picnic spot, Robin breathes a sigh of relief. They're not going back to general avoidance then. She’s even wearing this little smirk, bless her. Perhaps she’s a touch too pale and tense around the eyes, but there's a telltale teasing gleam to them to match her tone, and thank goodness for that.

“What can I say?” he shrugs gamely. “I’m a hopeless romantic.”

Not the most fortunate choice of words. Shit, he’s not helping matters any, is he? He watches for her reaction, half-expecting her to close up on him that instant.

“Bested by a tree,” she quips instead.

“Daddy!” an impatient Roland wiggles in his lap, beaming up at Regina even as he attempts to swat Robin's hand away.

“By a sexacentennial tree—and by strawberry jam.” Robin rolls his eyes as he tries valiantly to untangle the sticky knot in Roland’s hair, and Regina chuckles. “You wouldn’t perchance happen to have a pair of scissors on you, would you?”

She does. Of course she does. Is there anything she's not prepared for?

A quick and well-calculated _snip_ later, she’s ruffling Roland's hair with a grin.

“It’ll grow back before you know it. Now go. Play.”

Roland runs off, happy enough with his new cut, and Henry follows him after a quick hug around his mother’s middle.

The moment Robin and Regina are alone, without the buffer of their children, the sheer load of what needs to be addressed settles over their heads like a stormcloud.

That warm tingle he feels when it's the four of them together lingers, rendering his brain useless, and all he can muster is:

“Did you sleep well?”

“Of course not,” scoffs Regina, ostensibly raising her burgundy travel mug, and Robin catches a whiff of strong coffee. “Did you?”

Robin rubs his neck. His own night consisted mostly of watching scraps of legend populated by the likenesses of Regina and himself as if they were being projected on the living room ceiling. While not without a certain dreamlike quality, by no means did it merit the title of sleep.

“Point taken,” he gives her.

They sit side by side, all too aware of their knees almost touching as they’re turned ever so slightly towards one another, and watch their boys floating a paper boat in the shallow waters of the moat.   

“But,” Regina adds after a sip or two of awkward silence, “at least it was a productive night.”

Setting down her mug, she pulls a neatly bound stack of papers from her bag.

“Ah. Your script?”

“To be,” she amends. Then, with a deep breath: “I’d like you to read it.”

That's...rather unexpected. And most welcome.

“I’d very much like that, Regina,” he tells her, really quite touched. “I’m honoured.”

“Just be honest.”

* * *

 

He seems genuinely flattered. Pleased, even. He smiles when she hands her prized pages to him, dimples showing as their fingers brush, and then he’s eagerly turning to the first page.

It's...cute.

The linden waves its limbs gently and a bunch of crows argue in harsh tones, but try as she might, none of that can keep her attention from the man at her side and the pages he's completely immersed in.

What is he thinking? How must he feel about all this? And when all is said and done, will he wish he’d never set foot in Vesnohrad in the first place?

The silence, the anticipation don’t help her already jittery nerves any. She toys with a stray blade of grass stuck to the dark denim of her jeans, then shoves her hands in her coat pockets mutinously only to fidget with the damn piece of paper that’s brought more chaos than light into the situation, and a whole lot more peril. Henry and Roland have taken to cloud-gazing now, and she tries, briefly, to do the same, to summon some sort of interest or excitement or even inner peace—to no avail. And Robin still hasn’t spoken a word, is staring at the last page now and has been for a while, and what if it’s a disaster? What if—?

“Regina, this is...” He looks up at her, and she’s been trying to keep some semblance of poise and composure, but it goes right out of the window when she sees the tear running down Robin’s cheek, and how he lets it, quite openly, as he finishes with a soft: “Brilliant.”

“Thank you,” she breathes, that knot in her stomach loosening somewhat. “It’s just a draft for now. Once August gets on the script…” Even now, though, the thought makes her fingers twitch, the urge to yank the pages from Robin’s grasp and bury them in her bag never to be seen by anyone else much too strong. And if Robin can wear his heart on his sleeve for her, surely she can show her a piece of her own? “I'm just not sure I can let go. I've come to think of this story as mine, held on to it for so long—and now it'll never be that again. I thought I was ready, but after yesterday… Stupid, I know.”

“Not at all. I understand. And I have faith in you.”

She can tell he’s dying to know more (who wouldn’t?), that he has a myriad questions he’s been keeping in check—for her, she realises with a jolt of her stomach that isn’t entirely unpleasant. It’s hardly fair, though, to keep him in the dark, no matter how afraid she is of letting him in so close.

And he did say he had faith in her, didn’t he?

“Do you trust me?” she asks, because the two are not the same, and what she’s about to tell him is going to sound bizarre at best.

“Yes,” he says without a moment’s hesitation, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Regina’s heart knocks against her ribcage as she retrieves the photocopy of that fateful drawing (the original safely stashed away at home) and unfolds it with shaky fingers, spreading it open across her thigh and his as Robin shifts closer to see.

“I've seen this place before.” A summer storm from many years ago thunders in her chest, the squelch of mud on the drenched forest floor. “And it might sound crazy, but I want to find it. To find—”

“Answers?” Robin supplies. His fingers are smoothing out the creased copy, but he’s looking at _her_. At Regina, not the couple in the drawing.

“I'll understand if you want nothing to do with this.”

“What?” A deep furrow wrinkles his brow, but he’s quick to recover. “Of course I want to. Regina, I know you've felt strongly about this story long before I ever knew about it, but it’s wreaked havoc on my heart as well. Even before last night. We both want the same thing, yeah? To get to the bottom of this?”

All right, then.

“There's something you should know before we go.”

Here goes nothing.

Her voice is steady enough as she tells Robin about the odd vision a decade old, of a young maiden and her stable boy; but inwardly she’s preparing for him to turn tail and run far away from what he must inevitably decide is the ravings a of a lunatic. Any time now.

And yet Robin stays. He doesn’t call her crazy or delusional, nor does he recoil from her. Undeterred, he offers then arranges for John to take both boys for the afternoon.

Regina’s still dazed as they buckle their seatbelts and he follows, without question, her instructions to the dot, parking his truck at the edge of the forest and letting her lead the way down the overgrown path she’s barely able to locate.

“I don’t remember the way,” she confesses after a while, looking around for something to jog her memory.

“What do you remember?”

“Thunder. Lightning. Pouring rain.” The usual during storms, and what kind of question even is that? But Robin’s waiting her out, inconceivably patient, his very presence grounding somehow. “A huge tree, sprawled wide. Gnarled, just like in the picture. I kept reminding myself to stay away from it, because it seemed like the kind of place to attract lightning bolts.” Despite the pull she felt to do the exact opposite—a fact left unsaid, but understood between them anyway.

“Perhaps we’re looking at this wrong.”

“Wrong how?” she frowns.

“Trying to find this oak. Perhaps we should just let our gut guide us to it.”

“That sounds—” she almost says _foolish_ , or _pointless_ , or something equally awful, and immediately her cheeks burn with shame. He’s never once judged her, no matter what degree of absurd she’s thrown at him, and she’s not going to dismiss him either. “Worth a shot,” she finishes instead.

That doesn’t mean she feels any less foolish though, standing in the middle of nowhere with her eyes closed and face upturned, waiting for some sort of divine intervention. She’s all about putting in the work, and waiting for the universe to do her a favour frustrates her. She steals a glance at Robin, his face dappled with specks of sunlight, only to have him open his eyes and meet her gaze out of nowhere, as if he could sense hers on him.

“I don’t feel anything,” she admits. It’s not completely true—she feels a whole lot of things, from irritation through desperation to the slightest thrill at the way he’s quietly considering her. But not that mysterious tug at her heart they’re looking for.

“Would you be willing to try something?”

Robin holds out his hand, and that’s all it takes for her to understand.

It might still not work.

Something tells her it will.

Then why is she not taking his hand already? She wants answers, doesn’t she? An explanation.

His lips twitch, pulling into a smile that’s meant to be reassuring but really is awfully sad somehow, and she won’t have that. His fingers are warm when she slips her palm into his, and he squeezes gently, eyes warming and, this time, smiling for real.

It’s awkward for a moment, both of them teetering on their tiptoes—then they both move, at the same time, in the same direction. The path forks, twists, disappears. They don’t talk; just walk on, hand in hand, as if they knew where they’re going, or as if the destination didn’t really matter.

They find it in the end—or perhaps it finds them. Bathed in sunlight pouring from the sky, with a soft halo of mist, the oak stands split in two, charred by lightning. Not dead, though—vines of ivy twine around its sagging branches, new leaves shooting from those heavy arms pointing towards the towers and walls of the distant castle.

And it’s calling to them.

“Ready?” Robin whispers.

Regina cannot speak—her mouth is dry, her tongue sticking to the roof of it—so she merely nods, and together they step forward, still holding on to each other, their free hands reaching for the mossy trunk.

The world collapses around them—and she just _knows_.

* * *

_He’s strolling down the path with a spring in his step, his prize clinking in the burlap sack slung over his shoulder with each stride. The further away he gets, the sprightlier his walk, the more brazen the whistle he can’t hold back. His hideout is close, the castle far away, his foray into its riches a crowning success._

_The clearing emerges ahead, the ample shade under his trusty tree a welcome reprieve. He’s going to count his blessings, and count his earnings, and then—_

_“One wrong move and you’re dead.”_

_Perhaps his triumph was premature._

_Robin’s eyes fly from his loot to the owner of the voice at the other end of the blade, the hissed words having offered precious few clues as to who his adversary might be. Keeping his head bent low so as not to lose it completely to said blade, he expects the tips of leather boots. Instead, he finds the hem of a delicate cream dress._

_Not the count’s men, then. A woman’s come upon him, dressed in finery no less, and perhaps this shouldn’t intrigue him so, but it very much does._

_“Give me back what’s mine,” she commands, the tip of the blade digging into his shoulder just enough to serve as warning—she means business._

_“In a minute, milady,” he says—he's always been a touch too reckless for his own good. “First, might I know how it is you’ve tracked me down where so many have failed?”_

_“You may not.”_

_She sounds a bit off-kilter, a scandalized edge to her uncompromising tone—she won't brook any argument, this woman he finds he can't help being intrigued by._

_“Shan’t you humour a bested man?” He implores, wondering if the smirk he's doing a rather poor job of hiding might just cost him his life._

_“Perhaps if you weren’t so cocky, you’d have fared better,” she snaps. “And you seem to have learned nothing—I said give it back.”_

_“Ah, but I’d much prefer not to part ways just yet.” With the treasure. Or with her._

_“Are you as dimwitted as you look? I won’t ask another time—you give up that bag right this minute or—”_

_But just what terrible thing she’s in store for him Robin never finds out, for the thundering of hooves grows ever closer, and no way is he going to be taken by the guards to rot in some minuscule cell or be maimed in one of those infamous torture chambers. He jumps to his feet, the lick of metal stinging as it pierces his skin, but it’s just a scratch, and she’s not fast enough to restrain him as he twists from her reach._

_In fact, to Robin’s utter bemusement, she hasn’t moved at all._

_She’s a vision in that embroidered gown with dark locks tumbling down her shoulders—or would be, if she weren’t presently petrified. Her breaths come in shallow little gasps, and her eyes are wide with fear, the dagger slipping from sweaty fingers and landing at her feet._

_Horses whinny and voices spill curses, and Robin catches a bitter_ no sign of the countess _, and a curt_ keep looking _._

_The woman before him trembles._

_“Please,” she whispers. “Don’t give me away.”_

_He won’t. He can’t._

_He raises a hand and lays a finger over his lips in silent promise. She tilts her head at that, incredulous, and it’s only when the riders are out of earshot that she relaxes, sagging against the trunk. The dagger lies forgotten as he joins her on the ground._

_“That was...close.”_

_He lets out a soft chuckle at the sight of her pout, the haughty, proud line of her jaw. Stubborn. Bold and audacious._

_“A simple thank you would suffice.”_

_At that, she merely huffs, bestowing an irate glance upon him that slides from his face to the bloodied tear in his tunic._

_“I could look at that for you.”_

_“It is but a scratch,” he shrugs, not stopping her in the least as she reaches for his tattered sleeve. “By no means rare where I come from.”_

_“You’re a thief.” She spits it out with more contempt than he's comfortable with from her, yet with a challenge, too, to contradict her, to hold his own, like it's a game they're inventing as they go. And what is he to do but play along?_

_“Yes, it is a questionable line of work, but I’m good at it.”_

_“Evidence points to the contrary.”_

_“You wound me, milady.”_

_She rolls her eyes at the melodramatic way he gasps and clasps his chest, and slaps another strip of his shirt over the cleaned wound for lack of a bandage. She's sharp-witted, sharp-tongued, her hands soft when she's not wielding a sharp blade to match and just as deft. The loss of her touch seems to leave a wound deeper than the one she's just dressed._

_They sit in silence for a bit, her eyes on the forgotten burlap sack while his keep wandering over to her, baffled with the fact he’s about to willingly part with his loot for her benefit as she rummages through its contents. Rather than taking inventory, she seems to be on the search for something specific._

_“You can keep the spoils,” she says, much to his bemusement, as her hand closes around something, air collapsing from her lungs in relief. “I only ask for my pendant back.”_

_“It’s special to you.”_

_She stares at her closed fist, a simple (gold?) chain trailing from between her fingers._

_“He was.” It's small, barely there, and sad—a smile that frays at the edges. And then: “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”_

_“I’m a good listener.” A short sound between snort and laugh has him defending, teasing: “I am. And willing to subject myself to any test milady may deem necessary to prove it.”_

_It doesn't quite lighten the mood enough, though._

_“Not today.”_

_“Perhaps another day, then,” he looks at her hopefully._

_“Perhaps.”_

* * *

_The grass is soft and her hair softer still as he cards his fingers through dark tresses, teasing out tiny tangles as she sighs contentedly in his arms._

_They’ve time now—something to be grateful for amid this godawful war plaguing the land. With the count gone to fight off the raiders, she’s positively thriving. In her husband’s absence, she’s happier, more carefree, and, indeed, stunning, than she’s ever been._

_He likes to think he may have a bit to do with that, too._

_“Thief,” she accuses lazily with a smile in her voice when he steals a bite of her apple._

_“You knew I was one when you met me.”_

_“Mhmm. Good thing you can't steal something that's been given to you.”_

_Robin's hand brushes the side of her breast as it slips just a touch lower, his gentle caress making her eyelashes flutter blissfully._

_The curve of her belly doesn't betray anything yet, but they know—the child she carries is his,_ their _daughter, and they cannot wait to meet her._

* * *

 

_The tower looms dark on the stormy horizon as Robin's life comes to an end._

_He drags one foot forth, then the other—away, away._

_He's alive._

_He wishes he were dead. In their stead, or alongside them. Wishes his soul, too, could rise to the skies leaving its broken shell of a body behind at the bottom of the moat._

_The castle, that golden cage turned lovers’ nest, stands rigid as if its walls, too, were numb with pain, staring mutely at his hunched, departing back._

_With her gone, it could never be home again._

* * *

 

With a thousand things to say, not a word comes for either until they drive through the castle gate.

Regina sniffles now and again, and Robin can't blink his tears away rapidly enough. She won't let him hold her hand or offer any kind of comfort—or take the same from her, for that matter.

“Do we have a past here?” he asks, his voice rough, as those aged walls stare down at them.

Regina lets herself out and heads for the falconers’ quarters without looking back.

* * *

 

It was grief Robin felt under the tower, an awful loss clawing his chest open. That's what came over him the night of the tour, before Regina, clueless herself of so much, swooped in to rescue him from its clutches.

And now he knows why.

Perhaps before, he could have been convinced that the White Lady had been only a figment of his imagination. Now, though...now he knows she was more. What exactly, he can't say, but more.

Regina saw what he did, perhaps more. Did she watch herself, a doppelganger, ancestor,or incarnation, die a gruesome death? She couldn't bear to talk about it any more than he could.

He thanks their lucky star (if there is one such out there for them) that it's a free weekend for both.

* * *

 

She’s halfway through a bottle of wine by the time Robin joins her under the roof of the packed restaurant. Rocinante must have sensed her distress, for there's a tear in her peacoat now and that sort of thing hasn’t happened in years.

Robin, too, looks shaken, and rightfully so. He reaches for the bottle with an unspoken question, and she pushes it towards him. Her fingers tremble as she toys with the pendant on the table between them—a relic of the past. Loved and lost, twice over.

And what the hell does all of this even _mean_?

“This doesn't have to mean anything.”

“You don't like me that way?” she frowns. Because that's the only way his statement makes sense. Wouldn't it be a relief if, after everything, he had no romantic feelings for her whatsoever? Or would it?

“I like you every way,” he says without thinking, then sputters into his wine. “That came out weird. Apologies, I—”

“If it doesn't mean anything, then why are we here?” Geographically, physically, emotionally—together and drawn ever closer, falling for each other fast. Because, like it or not, she is. Falling. For him.

_My heart took me here._

And how is it Regina could swear she's heard him say those words to her before?

“This is crazy, right? I mean, fate?”

Robin lays down his glass, his hand inching towards where hers rests on the table but stopping just short of touching her.

“You still get to decide,” he says—no, he _vows_. “Not fate. Not anyone. You. What do you want, Regina?”

She wants to run. He should run. She can't handle this, is not ready for...any of that.

She may want to run, and maybe he should. Yet when the bottle is empty, they order another.

And they stay.

* * *

 

The play’s a roaring success.

Not that anyone but Gold and Regina herself, apparently, doubted it would be.

The festival goers are riveted by the story, and perhaps it doesn't get quite as deep under their skin as she’d like, can't be quite the profoundly transformative piece it deserves to be, it still, much to her own surprise, proves cathartic.

So the audience cheers, and Gold fumes.

“He'll cheer up eventually,” shrugs Belle. “How cold he not, with all the donations pouring in?”

“People are already asking to buy the book!” Mary Margaret gushes.

“There is no book.”

“Well, that’s about to change,”says Mal matter-of-factly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if Regina were writing books on the regular. Which, all right, isn't entirely untrue. Just not the usual subject matter.

“Maybe,” Regina settles on. It still feels intrusive, the last performance as raw as the first, like she’s standing bare under their scrutiny—but isn’t it her duty, now more than ever, to set the record straight? Does she not owe it to them, to herself, to see this through?

But that's a dilemma for another day.

Today, they celebrate. Because attendance was great, reviews complimentary, and actors will in fact be back next year despite Gold’s misguided modernisation efforts. So Regina will have dinner with Henry and bask in the relief that's slowly but surely setting in as life slowly returns to normal.

Except her friends and colleagues have other ideas, and so she finds herself in a packed restaurant, surrounded by people drinking to her health, showering her in compliments, and thanking her profusely for championing their cause and, not least of all, for “wiping that smug sneer off Gold’s face”. Henry is there, hugging her proudly, and Roland, barrelling into her legs with his usual enthusiasm, while Tink raves about how amazing it was to be directed by a woman of Regina’s calibre, and John tears up all over again as he reminisces about the lovers’ tale.

But it's Robin she seeks out in the crowd. Robin, sitting across from her, smiling that dimpled smile with a look in his eyes that warms her from the inside out with its sheer intensity and affection.

She hasn’t been avoiding Robin—has been spending quite some time with him in fact, with the boys around or with just the two of them—but she’s avoided addressing their situation ever since that fateful day. True to his word, he’s never made a move, never pushed for more than the friendship she was offering, but instead would take it happily. She’d almost think he's content with that, doesn't crave more with her—except the man wears his heart on his sleeve and she’s not fucking blind.

But she pretends to be; wonders if, given time, now that the mystery is solved (or as much so as they can ever hope for it to be), their mutual attraction will peter out and their bond be severed. Every day she waits for it to happen, every day too afraid to face the dawning reality that her feelings have only been growing.

Today’s not one of those days.

* * *

 

Robin's talking to Tink, a perky if somewhat impertinent friend of Regina's, when she stops mid-sentence and looks wide-eyed in the very direction Robin's been making a valiant, if pathetic, effort not to stare in for the better part of the night.

Regina is marching towards him, shoulders squared and chin raised, every molecule radiating purpose.

His stomach manages the impossible feat of both sinking and somersaulting at the same time.

“Take a walk with me?” she requests without preamble, and Robin is out of his chair that very moment because this is important, he can tell. A defining moment for them, one way or another, and he both welcomes and dreads hearing what she has to say, but he certainly won't delay it another second.

It's not much of a walk so far, for they're moving at a speed more akin to a run, past the castle entrance and across the moonlit courtyard, making a beeline for—

“Regina...?”

Robin cannot help the rush of cold settling over his chest and pressing down, but manages to bite back his _are you sure?_ at the memory of her _do you trust me?._ His answer hasn't changed one iota, has in fact only been cemented since.

Regina's stopped at the sound of her name, the questioning, knowing tilt of her head tugging at his heartstrings.

“I'm with you,” he assures, pulling a small smile from her.

She fishes a key out of her pocket, and as she unlocks the door that hides a winding staircase, her pinkie finds his, and Robin takes the plunge and laces his fingers with hers, palm to palm.

Regina leads him up up up, their footsteps drowned by their thundering heartbeats. Caught between past and present, with the promise of future hanging in the balance, time seems momentarily suspended.

The view is staggering—or perhaps it’s the tower itself that makes him dizzy, its walls steeped in tragedy, living and breathing tears and blood. Robin holds on to Regina tighter, though no more so than she does him, and fixes his gaze on her instead of the sweeping landscape or the shimmering rooftops.

She’s shivering—whether for lack of layers under her jacket or something that runs much deeper, he cannot say. He never retrieved his hoodie from the restaurant, so he’s nothing to offer other than the warmth of his embrace, and he’s still not quite certain whether or not that would be at all welcome.

“This tower has terrified me ever since I first came here,” Regina confesses, touching her free hand to her belly like he’s come to know she does when upset or vulnerable.

“Oh, I’m familiar with the feeling,” he says darkly, squeezing the hand still clasped in his.

“I don’t want it to have this much power over me anymore.”

“Is that why you brought me here? To break the spell?”

It makes sense, of course. So much so Robin is actually surprised it hasn’t occurred to them before. Or perhaps she’s been mulling it over ever since they left the oak behind. Dare he hope she’s been waiting to work out where they stand now, the two of them, and where she wants them to go?

She’s surveying him even now, weighing her answer perhaps, licking her lips nervously as a gust of wind whips her hair about, and her arm flies to his bicep to steady herself.

“Exactly,” she says, both brittle and rough with determination.

That about does it for Robin—the simple word dashing his hope in one merciful strike, because if that’s all this is about, well then it might be time to let go of this romantic aspect of them, and—

All of a sudden she moves in closer, and he’s stumbling forth as she yanks him by the shirt, and their torsos crash together, chests flush and heaving as their lips hover inches apart for a split second before finally, _bloody finally_ , coming together.

It’s warm and firm and electrifying, like a livewire where his veins or nerves used to be, his whole body zinging and sparkling and alive in a way Robin’s never felt before. His hand flies to her hair, tangling in dark tresses like it’s always longed to do, and she sighs against his lips, the low hum sending another current of energy through him. Her nails scratch against his scalp, trailing down to his collar and fisting the fabric, holding him in place—as if he ever wanted to leave her, or leave this, ever again.

But it’s Regina who ends the kiss, just as she was the one to initiate it. Her breathing is fast and shallow, her eyes hooded, and she’s not stepping out of his embrace, thank heavens, but lingering instead, nuzzling into him when he rubs their noses together in a gesture that should perhaps feel too intimate yet but instead feels anything but.

“Back when we found out the truth, and you asked if we had a past here?” she whispers at long last. “I thought you’d ask if we have a past _together_. I just wasn’t ready to face that.”

Robin hums in understanding. He can’t fault her for needing time—won’t ever fault her for that. They’re here now—that’s all that matters. Perhaps he shouldn’t tempt fate, but he wants to be sure—want her to be sure, too.

“Well, I think we both know the answer to that now, yeah? The more pressing question for me though, is this: do we have a future together?”

Regina looks him straight in the eye then, her smile the most radiant he’s ever seen it.

“I think we owe it to ourselves to try.”

* * *

_White sleeves flutter in the wind._

_Black diamonds sparkle in the night._

_Two sides of a coin; two parts of a whole; the White Lady and the Black Lady. Split by loss and separated for centuries, peace has come upon them at last. Tonight, at the feet of the fateful tower that had once born witness to their tragedy, they come together at last, just as two soulmates have come together where once they’d been ripped apart._

_One story’s come full circle; another has just begun.  
_  
_And so the time has come to depart these silent walls. No longer haunted by the past, they—nay,_ she _—shall never again haunt the halls of Vesnohrad Castle._


End file.
